


The Visitor

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Humor, HP: EWE, Magic, Neighbors, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Theft, Unexpected Visitors, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: Crookshanks has developed a fixation on a certain crusty and unreceptive upstairs neighbour.Written for the 2017 round of Dramionelove on LJ.





	The Visitor

There it was again. The insistent scratching on the kitchen windowpane was a quiet but forceful summons. The ginger furball was tenacious. “Bugger!” Draco grumbled. “Go bother your owner and leave me the fuck alone!”

By his own reckoning, Draco Malfoy was not exactly an animal person. He’d never taken to the magical creatures he’d studied at school. In fact, they’d uniformly despised him, he was certain. That ridiculous beast Buckbeak, for instance, viciously attacking him in third year. What a travesty. He hadn’t even got on with his own owl. Bloody thing had bitten him so severely, once, that he’d been tempted to chuck it out the window of the Astronomy Tower. 

Nevertheless, all that was ancient history. He was a man of substance now, twenty-eight years old, recently liberated from a stifling society marriage and ready to enjoy the fruits of his newfound bachelor life, sweetened by a hefty income from his job as a PR writer for his father’s company. 

To that end, he had meticulously researched available flats in a wizarding section of London, an enclave in Chelsea protected by a glamour that compressed the entire neighbourhood into invisibility between two nondescript Muggle buildings, rather like an accordion sheaf of papers squeezed flat between bookends. 

It was his first-ever flat all on his own. Married three years out of school and installed by the Greengrass in-laws in exclusive digs in Kensington, he and Astoria had plodded through five years of matrimony with grim determination. At twenty-six, he’d had enough. Oddly, she hadn’t – Galleon signs were still in her eyes – and the divorce became a messy battle, with Astoria clinging to the Malfoy name and attending status and wealth for all she was convinced they were worth. 

At last, though, it was over. A settlement was agreed, the divorce finalised, and Draco had walked away feeling as if he could breathe freely for the first time in years. The first thing he’d done was shop for a place of his own, and he’d found this one: an upstairs flat that was part of a long row of attached, subdivided townhouses. Each one was painted a different, bright colour, with tall upstairs windows, narrow, iron grillwork balconies suitable for window boxes, and a generous bay window on each ground floor. Large pots of lushly flowering plants graced every doorstep, and the narrow, winding road was cobbled in faded, uneven brick. His own new house was lemon yellow, and he found that the cheery colour suited him; he’d had enough of the tastefully muted hues approved by Pureblood matrons. Moreover, for five long years, his life had been awash in the petty, grey miseries of an unhappy marriage. He’d signed the lease and moved in without a backward glance or a single regret. Now it was time to start really living.

And so he had done, quite happily, for eighteen months. Then, one day, he’d become vaguely aware of the sounds of furniture being moved about downstairs. A lorry had parked in the street, and moving men were busy unloading cartons and furnishings, and magicking them inside. Someone new was moving in. Right. He’d dismissed the thought as none of his concern and gone about his business. He really wasn’t the neighbourly type. He’d mind his own business if his neighbours minded theirs.

That expectation was about to be blasted to smithereens, though he didn’t know it yet.

It had begun with the appearance, several mornings later, of a face pressed to his bedroom window. Huge, round, green eyes surrounded by masses of ginger fur gazed at him, unblinking and inquisitive. A bushy, bottlebrush tail swished lazily, and a tiny, pink tongue flicked out to delicately clean an errant drop of breakfast from its upper lip.

The suddenness of the cat’s appearance had nearly stopped Draco’s heart, half asleep as he was at the time. (It was six in the morning, for fuck’s sake!) To whom did the creature belong, and how in Merlin’s name was it apparently stuck to his window? Suspended by its claws? Levitating? Hang on. The fire escape. Of course. Draco had found himself staring back at the cat, transfixed. The spell was broken a moment later, when a pyjama-clad girl had appeared on the fire escape head first, her wild mass of unruly curls hastily yanked into a ponytail. Kneeling down to scoop up her cat, she’d peered in, unable to see who was in the dimly lit room but waving cheerfully nevertheless. He’d known exactly who she was, though.

_Granger._

“Oh gosh! I’m so sorry! Did he wake you?” There had been a light giggle and then a sigh. “I do try to keep him inside, but he’s half Kneazle, and you know what they are. Nothing stops them getting out when they want to.” Another giggle. “Come to think of it, that’s all cats, isn’t it! Anyway, apologies! It won’t happen again. I hope!” With another wave, Hermione Granger had disappeared down the fire escape. He could hear her scolding her feline escape artist as she went.

“Crooks, you bad boy, bothering our new neighbour that way! You probably scared him half to death! You mustn’t do that ever again! Now come inside and finish this nice breakfast that Mummy’s put out for you.”

_Hermione bloody Granger._

Shit. Of all the row houses in all the cities, towns, and hamlets in wizarding Britain, she had to move into his. With her cat Crookshanks, who had to be three hundred years old by now. How the hell was he even still alive?!

That was four weeks ago. In the ensuing month, his life had been turned upside down by a four-legged creature who had apparently decided that Draco needed and positively yearned for his company, and by Bastet, he would make sure Draco had it. 

Regularly.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
In the long list of descriptions that Draco found himself applying to Crookshanks, usually in a growl accompanied by a choice selection of expletives, there were a few that became constants in his vocabulary:  
  
  
  
1\. Crookshanks the sneak thief  
  
Why he did this was impossible to fathom. But one Saturday afternoon, just after Poppy the house-elf had brought Draco’s clean laundry into the bedroom, stacking it neatly on the chest of drawers, a pair of underpants had disappeared. Questioning Poppy had yielded nothing from her but a confused and anxious frown. The little house-elf was genuinely perplexed. The green-striped garment had most definitely been there earlier. She would swear to it.

Three hours later, there was a knock at the door. Draco had been dressing to go out that evening, and he was running late. He arrived at the door still rushing to knot his tie.

He found Hermione on his doorstep. Having survived the considerable surprise of finding he was her neighbour, now she was merely amused and a bit sheepish, holding the missing pants out to him, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Deeply chagrined, he snatched the offending item from her, muttering something about thievery and the right to privacy a man had where underwear was concerned, and shut the door in her face.

Three days later, it happened again. This time, it was a pair of socks. How Crookshanks, not exactly a petite feline, was getting into his flat was an increasingly confounding question. Somehow he managed not to leave a single clue, slipping in and out again with ease. A cat burglar par excellence. This time, Hermione didn’t show up at his door to return them. The socks had apparently disappeared for good; only Crookshanks knew where, and he wasn’t talking.

When a very expensive pair of silver and jade cufflinks went missing, Draco hit the roof. Stomping downstairs, he banged on Hermione’s door. Never mind that it was ten o’clock at night.

The door opened an inch. One wide, hazel eye fringed with long, dark lashes was visible in the narrow opening.

“Look, Granger,” he began hotly. “This is too much. I know you probably think your thieving cat’s antics are adorable and quite hilarious.”

“Well…” 

There was that tiny grin again, tickling the corners of her mouth. He could tell she was willing herself not to laugh.

“And the fact that some of my favourite things are going missing means sod all to you. Nevertheless, I want my stuff back and I want it _now!_ ”

Shouldering the door open, he pushed his way past Hermione and marched into her flat. It was the first time he’d ever been there, but that was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Looking wildly about, he narrowed his eyes. Where would a cat be likely to stash his treasure? 

Meanwhile, Hermione had managed to collect herself in the face of this onslaught. Now, hands on her hips, she planted herself in front of Draco. 

“Look here, Malfoy. You can’t just barge into my flat and start ordering me about and making demands. I understand it’s frustrating that your things are going missing. But you can’t blame Crooks without proof. Just because he took your… your…” She flushed a delicate pink and cleared her throat. “… You know… it doesn’t mean he’s taken anything since. If I find something, I’ll return it to you immediately. Now please be so kind as to leave.” 

“ _NO._ ”

“No?” she echoed faintly, taken aback, and then sighed, resigned. “Okay. What is it you’re missing now?”

“Besides a pair of hand-knitted socks my old nanny made for me? My silver and jade cufflinks. Worth a mint.”

“Oh. Yes, I see. Right, then. I’ll look for them straightaway.”

“ _We’ll_ look for them, you mean,” Draco corrected firmly, right behind Hermione as she turned to begin the search. 

And search she did, with Draco hovering nearby; every drawer, cupboard, storage box, and closet was turned inside out. Even the spaces beneath the sofa and her bed were thoroughly inspected. Just before midnight, in a makeshift nest at the bottom of Hermione’s wardrobe, beneath a bra, a pair of black satin knickers (“Crooks! My knickers! Bad boy!”), pantyhose, and Draco’s socks, there was a small black box. Draco snatched it up and popped the lid open. There were his cufflinks, none the worse for wear.

Hermione looked horrified, raising huge, dark eyes to his. “I am so sorry, Malfoy! I really didn’t think – I had no idea –”

“Not your fault,” he told her gruffly, and really, it wasn’t. “Forget it. Just stop him doing it again, yeah?” (Wishful thinking, he'd lay odds. Nevertheless, it wouldn't do not to at least say the words. He had his pride.)

It was unexpectedly gracious of him in the circumstances. Hermione gave him a faint, embarrassed smile. “Would you… would you like a cup of coffee, maybe? Or, I know… what about some wine? To mend fences. I did spoil your evening, after all,” she added.

“Well, not all of it,” he allowed with a small grin of his own. “Yeah, all right. Wine sounds good.” 

After that evening, it became like a game. Things would vanish – a boot brush, a pack of cards, a comb, a jewelled stick pin, a tie clip – and Hermione would go fish them out of Crookshanks’ lair in the wardrobe and bring them back to Draco. Eventually, she began to inspect her wardrobe pre-emptively. After each return, it became their custom, as well, to share a mug of tea or coffee, a bit of cake, a glass of wine, whatever might be to hand. The unspoken ritual slowly grew on both of them.  
  
  
  
2\. Crookshanks the bottomless pit  
  
“Oi! Granger! Don’t you ever feed that beast of yours?” Draco called out the window to Hermione, who was just arriving home from work. “He’s up here again, begging.”

In fact, Crookshanks was perched on Draco’s kitchen table, nonchalantly grooming the nails on one paw as he eyed the fragrant roast chicken Poppy had just prepared for her master’s dinner.

The wily feline had worked out how to gain entry through the kitchen window, Draco reckoned – no more scratching needed – and now, almost every evening when he arrived home, Crooks would be there waiting for a sampling of that night’s fare. Poppy never minded giving him a bite or two; irritated at first, Draco eventually relented.

“All right,” he sighed now. “Poppy, give him a bit of chicken. He can keep me company.”

Together, they dined on roast chicken and Draco found himself telling Crookshanks about his day. The feline proved to be a better listener than his ex-wife had ever been. The irony was unavoidable.

Hermione came upstairs just in time for pudding, which tonight was a lovely trifle Poppy had made that afternoon. The conversation was intermittent but relaxed, and Draco felt the tensions of the day slipping away in her company.

This, too, became something of a ritual. Sometimes, Hermione would reverse things and invite Draco downstairs to bring Crookshanks back and then share her dinner. 

“It’s the least I can do,” she shrugged one evening, with a smile. “D’you know, Malfoy, I think he spends nearly as much time upstairs at your place as he does here!” She laughed, the sound of it musical and quite pleasant, captivating even. 

It was a sound Draco found himself wanting to hear more of.  
  
  
  
3\. Crookshanks the opportunist  
  
There were certain spots in Draco’s flat where the morning sun streamed in, toasty warm and bright: the shag rug in the sitting room, the plush arm of the sofa, the foot of the bed where a spare quilt was folded. 

More often than not these days, Crookshanks was to be found in one of those spots, curled up in a contented ball of ginger fur and snoring, or stretched out blissfully, exposing his belly in a show of utter trust.

Draco’s initial annoyance had gradually evolved into resignation and then acceptance. Crooks was now a part of his landscape, and there didn’t seem to be a thing he or Hermione could do about it. 

The day he found himself eyeing a pet shop window with the idea of buying a cat toy displayed there, that was it. He knew he was beaten. Crookshanks had burrowed his way into Draco’s life, uninvited, but now he belonged.

And just maybe, his mistress did too, though she probably didn’t know it just yet. Or perhaps, if he were very lucky indeed, she did.

He bought the toy. In fact, he bought three. And a packet of Crooksie’s favourite treats. Hardly enough to repay a certain debt of gratitude that Draco was only now realising he owed.

Walking home, parcel in hand, he whistled as he contemplated the evening ahead. Perhaps tonight, dinner might be a nice meal out somewhere. Preferably in the company of a certain beautiful downstairs neighbour with a very inquisitive, resourceful cat.

“ _Alohomora!_ ” he murmured, reaching his door and tapping it with his wand. It swung open. Crookshanks was there, waiting. Gazing at Draco, he closed his eyes very slowly and then opened them. 

Ah. A “cat kiss.” Draco remembered Hermione telling him about those. 

Sauntering past him to the staircase now, Crookshanks turned and looked back. This time, bloody hell... that was no cat kiss. It was a wink. And… did cats smile?  
  
  
  
  


FIN  
  
  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/IMG_4235.jpg.html)  
Draco and Hermione’s shared townhouse, the center one with the covered doorway  
  
http://imgur.com/a/UqYrn   
Crookshanks

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks and hugs to my lovely beta mister_otter, who is always such a fantastic source of support and much-valued concrit.  
>   
>  _Bastet_ : Goddess of cats, protection, joy, dance, music, family  
>   
> "Bastet was a goddess in ancient Egyptian religion, worshiped as early as the 2nd Dynasty (2890 BCE). As Bast, she was the goddess of warfare in Lower Egypt, the Nile River delta region, before the unification of the cultures of ancient Egypt. Her name is also translated as Baast, Ubaste, and Baset. In Greek mythology, she is also known as Ailuros (Greek for "cat," αἴλουρος).” (Wikipedia)  
>   
> “Of all the row houses in all the cities, towns, and hamlets in wizarding Britain, she had to move into his.” This is, of course, a nod to the film “Casablanca,” in which Rick says, of his old love Ilsa, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”


End file.
